The Archer and The Acrobat
by lilyamongthorns
Summary: Set in the 1940s. After a dark past, Clint Barton flees to escape brutal memories, but stumbles upon a traveling circus where he discovers the mysterious acrobat that might be even more scarred than he is. Clintasha. Very AU. Think of Water for Elephants but not . Trust me people.
1. All Kinds of Kinds

AN: Ok. I don't know why I do this to myself, honestly. Including this, I've got three stories going right now and I'm about to start another college semester and be swamped with activities. Writing is about to be on the backburner, as far as fan fiction I concerned. So this will be progressing very slowly.

Reeaalllly nervous about this. This can either be awesome, or a train wreck (no pun intended). I want this to be creative and new, not like Water for Elephants. So this will be slow going, I just ask that you stick along with me for the ride, and it might be a very long one.

Also, I know very little about Clint and Natasha's backgrounds because I've never read the comics. All I know is what I've read on tumblr (Clint was part of the circus, and that's where he began his training, Natasha was orphaned and—somehow—brainwashed…). Which means nothing in this story will follow canon, at least I don't think so. And everything in it is brand new, except maybe the names. Hopefully you don't mind, and just trust me that I have a plan—heh, right—to turn them into the master assassins we all know.

Also, I did a little bit of research on what I could learn without reading the comics, and read that Clint was once 80% deaf due to an injury. I've decided to use that, because it excites me (not deaf, but I know sign language). But instead, in this story, he's deaf in one ear. We'll learn why later.

In case you were wondering, both Clint and Natasha are 21 here.

And one more thing! The sequence in italics indicates a dream.

Enjoy. Reviews are amazing. :)

-O-O-O-

Rain. He'd always enjoyed it. It washed away the old, made things grow anew and fresh. It transformed. Whatever he was searching for, whatever he anticipated finding—and honestly not even he knew what he was expecting—it would be transforming. It would be something completely different.

He'd never been a particularly hopeful kind of person. Never expecting much out of life. Glitter faded much too quickly, and everything he'd ever gotten had turned rusty at his touch. He'd never put stock in becoming anything great, and didn't expect to now. But whatever was ahead was certainly new. Even if it was death, which looked like the most promising incident at the moment.

He tilted his face skyward and let the thin drops fall against his face, wetting his tangled hair and washing away the dried blood on his face. Days old.

And of course, as soon as he'd even thought of expecting something, as soon as the thought had crossed his mind, he felt cold.

The rain soaked through his shirt, plastering it to his skin and made his wool trousers heavy, dragging over his heels in the mud, but he trudged along, his shoes and socks soaked. He considered removing them; they were useless now in this condition, but he wouldn't risk it.

He shifted his pack higher on his shoulder and marched on.

Through the dreary drizzle, there was a light, far in the distance but approaching at an even pace along the tracks he was following.

Salvation?

He continued along, not too anxious or curious about what lay aboard the train. If it was full of cargo, it would mean another job. Vaguely, he remembered what his mother had once said about destiny. But that was long ago. Before the murders.

Too soon, before he'd realized, he was able to see the freight clearly through the mist. One giant, round beam of light pierced the dimming sky, through the shadows of the black trees along the tracks.

_We have a way of stumbling into destiny._

He could hear the engines now, thrumming and pumping in harmony. A deep unison of mechanics chugging along their preordained path. The sound was still distant and muffled, and he craned his good ear forward to listen closer.

When the train neared, he knew he only had one chance. He had one open door to swing into. There was no such thing as luck, he knew. Only opportunity and opportunity left untaken.

The engine passed with a fury, letting out a mocking whistle and a puff of steam that blurred his vision a moment in the strengthening rain. He was windblown a moment, startled and yet thrilled at the rush of the giant piece of machinery as it thundered past.

The body of the train was painted in vibrant colors: depictions of animals and clowns, faded and dreary looking in this weather. For a moment, he swore the clowns were frowning. Oh, so this was one of those trains. He should've suspected.

But this was the best he had, and his only chance to make it out of the storm. He could jump ship in the morning once they stopped. Slip away unnoticed. He'd done so before, after all.

When his golden opportunity came in the form of an open cargo door, he jumped. Literally. His hands gripped the bar near the door, holding on for dear life. His hands nearly slipped, and his heart lurched. He steeled himself for the feeling of being shredded to ribbons beneath the body of the monster. Knuckles white, breath held, his eyes opened once more when he was certain he had a good hold.

His legs bumped against the edge of the cart while he scrambled to get his footing, finally finding the doorway of the cart and tossing himself inside.

Finally. In from the storm. And nestled into a soft pile of hay. What a nice welcome.

He turned on his side, pressing his nose into the dry strands, breathing them in. This wasn't so bad. For a night. In the morning, they'd be relatively close to a town if they planned on stopping, and he could easily leave without being noticed.

"You make a good entrance," a voice spoke, male and thick with a Russian accent.

He bolted upright, unaware that bits of hay were poking up from his dark hair.

A man was settled in the corner, a worn quilt drawn around his body, a bottle of brown-tinted glass clutched in one hand. His green eyes glinted in the sliver of the moonlight peeking through the slats of the car. "I am Jacques." He held his hands out, bottle gripped tight in one hand. "And you are?"

"Bernard," he lied quickly.

But he could tell that the man wasn't fooled, though he didn't press the issue. "Well…_Bernard_…I take the pleasure of welcoming you to the Carson Carnival of Traveling Wonders." Without rising, the man flourished his hands as if bowing, and settled back against the corner. "Get comfortable. While you can."

-O-O-O-

_The house was dark, not a candle lit and no moonlight filtering in through the pane-less windows. He relied on sheer memory. He sidestepped the rocking chair, eased his way over his mother's knitting basket. If he made any noise at all, he would certainly be discovered._

_He gripped the knife more securely in his hand and pressed a palm against the door._

_Had to be done…Had to be done…_

_Now the clouds had parted, letting a sliver of moonlight through the tattered curtains. Beneath the thick winter quilt, Bernard was curled up, his long boyish hair tousled and his long eyelashes fluttered briefly in his sleep._

_Had to do it now…couldn't wait…_

_Swiftly, Clint mounted the bed and forced his brother onto his back, pinning him against the mattress. The boy had barely woken before the knife plunged into his stomach._

_His eyes widened in shock, staring up at his older brother. "Clint…"_

_He hadn't heard the word, only seen his lips move. He drove the knife deeper, twisting to the right. This time he heard Bernard's strangled gasp. He withdrew and drove in again, twisting once more for good measure._

"_Clint…" he breathed again, blue eyes turning milky in the moonlight._

_Finished…_

_Clint sat up, knees still braced on either side of the young boy. His jaw set and the saliva in his mouth thickened._

_Good…_

_He stared down at his handiwork, but the wound was gone. Not a drop of blood remained. Not even the weapon was there, no longer protruding from his younger brother's chest._

_In the shadows that the moonlight cast, he could see blood bubbling from the creases in his own white shirt. Reaching down to staunch the flow, he felt the cool touch of metal in his own chest. Hands shaking, his fingers curled around the hilt but the weapon wouldn't budge._

_He cried out, strangled and breathless. His hands were stained. Crimson and permanent. Soaking into the calloused creases of his palms. The fingertips of each hand met until they were palm to palm, almost as if in prayer…_

-O-O-O-

He was shaken awake, shouting wordlessly into the face of whoever it was.

Jacques peered down at him, half in confusion, half in annoyance. "Wake up," he said. And then spoke a language Clint did not understand. "Сначала работа, а затем вы едите."

He sat up, dusting the hay from his shirt and trousers. "What?" he asked, but Jacques didn't bother to translate. The train was now stopped, the previous thunderclouds cleared and bright morning sunlight filtering in the door of their car.

"The animals need to be fed," he said instead. "You will help me, and then we will practice."

Now Clint stood from his bed of soft alfalfa and ran one hand through his disheveled hair. "Practice?"

Jacques mumbled under his breath. "Глупый мальчик. Вы просите слишком много вопросов."

He tugged Clint by the shirt front from the train. He stumbled at first, tripping down the ramp as Jacques dragged him down.

"Now. You will feed the horses. And I will feed the lions, yes? You are…eh…" Jacques looked Clint over, peering at his dirtied clothes and thin frame. "…очень глупо…and I would not want you to lose a hand that may be valuable, eh?" Jacques flashed a yellow smile and jabbed Clint in the ribs with an elbow.

Clint didn't know what else to do except nod.

They'd stopped next to a wide field that was crowded with workmen unloading crates, sacks, ropes, rods and tarps from the train. Clint watched a moment before jogging near to Jacques, catching up to his side.

They traveled to the cars where the animals were held and a bucket of oats was shoved into his hands. Silently, he siphoned oats into each horse's stall. He'd been right about this train. Just another job. And this crazy Jacques man was obviously nuts. Just another carny.

He'd just have to find the right time to escape, and…

"HOY!" Jacques' voice shouted and his foot pounded the floor of the car. "What are you, boy? Deaf?"

This time, Clint gave a wry smile and pointed at his left ear. "I guess you could say…"

"Well, you will have to learn to listen better. Now, come." He beckoned him forward.

Clint dropped the bucket by one of the thinner looking horses and followed the man from the car. He caught up to Jacques' side and fell into step beside him.

They continued across the field where several white and red striped tents had seemingly sprung from the ground since Clint first exited the train that morning. Men hurried about, shouting orders in several different languages, very few in English. Another tent was being raised as the passed, men tugging the ropes and moving swiftly to tie them down. They moved almost mechanically, each knowing his place and his duty.

Clint watched intensely, following behind Jacques now.

They reached the apparent destination, for Jacques had stopped a few yards away. "Natasha!" he shouted, but Clint was no longer paying attention. He stared off at the men creating the miniaturized city in the wide expanse of field that had been empty moments earlier.

Women in costumes practiced their tricks at the fringes of the clearing, arching backs and legs in graceful movement. Giraffes grazed on the opposite side the field, their long speckled necks visible even from this distance. Even two elephants were there, hulking and yet gentle, trunks intertwined in a conversation. Apart from the tents, there were various two-bit games being fashioned: a dart throwing game, a game comprised of a pyramid of empty milk bottles, a fortune teller in her jewel-colored tent.

It certainly lived up to its name. A wonder.

"Boy! This is Natasha. She will help us to practice."

Clint returned his attention to his new mentor who now stood with a young woman at his side. She was dressed much like the women that he'd seen practicing. A very short dress of glittering pale blue that fell a few inches above her knee, revealing her slender legs and thighs that tapered into shapely hips. She wore sheer stockings, and slippers that matched her costume. Her thick red curls were violent in the sunlight, half pinned up away from her face, the rest cascading down her back.

But apart from that, she had no other glamour about her. She wore a blank expression, jaw set, full lips pouted, and blue eyes cold and almost empty. He was startled a moment, by both her beauty and her stature.

Jacques gave her orders in Russian, and she obeyed. She moved to stand in front of an upright square of board, probably six feet wide and tall and covered in black felt. She stood, legs apart and arms spread wide into a V.

Before Clint could question, the handle of a knife was pressed into his palm. He glanced up at the older man, and he merely gestured towards Natasha. "Go on. Throw."

He gaped. "What?" he asked, but not because he hadn't heard.

"Throw!" Jacques repeated. "Learn to listen, boy, or that ear of yours will come off, and that will be the end of it."

He turned back to face his target. He didn't trust himself enough not to hit the woman, though he had a wide range of space on the board. He eased back, aiming just above her shoulder. When the knife pegged itself into the board, it vibrated with energy just over her shoulder and very near her ear. But she didn't seem phased. She didn't even flinch or move one inch.

"Фантастическая. Будьте уверены, чтобы играть хорошо, Наташа. Не хочу его," Jacques said to her and marched off through the grass.

Natasha didn't move from her spot in front of the board, but lowered her hands to her hips. She looked at him, as if expectantly. He wondered what he was supposed to do now.

"Do you speak English?" he tried.

"Do you speak Russian?" she answered, not a hint of an accent evident in her voice, but sarcasm obvious in her question. "Most of the troupe does." Her face remained unchanged when she spoke. It was almost off-putting if it hadn't made him so curious.

"I learn fast," he answered and that earned him a smile, if a small one.

"And your name?" she asked.

"Bernard," he replied.

Without missing a beat, she answered, "You're lying."

It was his turn to smile. She was sharp. Maybe too sharp. "It's Clint."

The corner of her mouth twitched in amusement. "Well, Clint. I hope you enjoy yourself. Сегодня вы смотрите. Завтра вы работаете."

She sauntered past him, that little skirt swishing around her thighs. The sun caught the silver clip in her hair as she retreated.

"What does that mean?" he called after her.

"Today you watch. Tomorrow you work," she answered.

-O-O-O-

Translations:

"Сначала работа, а затем вы едите." – "First you work, then you eat."

"Глупый мальчик. Вы просите слишком много вопросов." – "Stupid boy. You ask too many questions."

"очень глупо." – "very stupid"

"Фантастическая. Будьте уверены, чтобы играть хорошо, Наташа. Не хочу его.." – "Fantastic. Be sure to play nice, Natasha. Do not be mean to him."


	2. Tha Mo Ghaol Air Àird A' Chuain

Today you watch. Tomorrow you work.

How correct she had been. Once the patrons began to arrive, he was shoved into the Big Top with them, perched high at the top of the seats between a whining child and a pair of love birds who could care less about the show.

The show began with the acrobats, the mysterious redhead not among them. But Clint suspected she was one of the better ones and would come later. The crowd oohed and aahed at their every flip and tumble, and cheered for the complicated pyramid they stacked themselves into, feet braced against shoulders and hands gripping at calves.

It was all quite glamorous. No one would've suspected the world behind the scenes that Clint had literally tossed himself into. It was all show, all folly.

Even he found himself lost inside the magic, and barely registered the Ring Master introducing the 'beautiful and enigmatic Natasha, as she dares the unattempted on the trapeze.'

A spot light pierced through the brief darkness, most of the outside light blocked by the tent's thick tarp. Natasha was poised, one foot on the trapeze, the other in a passé at her knee. One hand gripped the rope, and the other was held high, fingers bent gracefully. She was smiling, teeth and all, a drastic change from the tiny smile she'd given him earlier. Her face was distorted with too much makeup: thick eyelashes and heavily rouged cheeks that would've been outlandish in any other lighting. The crowd's cheers grew silent when a violin from somewhere within the tent began a slow, almost eerie pace and Natasha swung into her routine.

Her back arched flat against the trapeze, her legs bent gracefully beneath her, arms out and head upside down. How she balanced in that position was a mystery. She held the position a few moments before sliding down, her hands now gripping the trapeze, her body dangling beneath it, legs in an elegant bend. She pulled herself up, one leg twisted in the ropes, the rest of her body balanced expertly.

It was breathtaking. _She _was breathtaking. Never before had he seen such a graceful display. For the five minutes that she was wrapped up in the ropes and the bar, he wasn't even sure if it was real, or if it was all a dream. The best dream he'd had in many months. Over much too quickly, of course.

He could've sworn their eyes met, but it was fleeting before the light shut off, leaving the tent in darkness and an uproar of cheers.

-O-O-O-

He'd slipped away from the train that evening, needing to be away from the musty smelling cart and Jacques' obnoxious drunken snoring. He perched at the tiny platform of the tight rope, letting his legs dangle over the rings, tens of feet below.

He often found himself avoiding sleep. That was when the demons came. Before he'd left town, he'd gone two nights without sleep; he was becoming accustomed to it. It really wasn't too hard to stay awake when your subconscious threatened visions of your family being murdered by your own hand.

"Why are you here?" a voice asked in the darkness, and he'd only just barely heard it. It was her.

He looked up, trying to locate her.

She was poised on the rope before him, one bare foot before the other, hands on her hips, standing steady and perfectly balanced.

"What are you doing?" he answered, startled, ready to jump for her if she fell. She just grinned in satisfaction.

She stepped closer, arms by her side to keep her balance. At the end of the rope, one foot came close to his thigh as she stepped onto the platform, spinning in about-face to sit next to him. The space was big enough that they didn't touch, but small enough that she had to sit very near him. He noticed the clear blue of her eyes, even in the darkness.

"Sitting alone in the dark? People will start to think you're up to something," she said.

"And were you…up to something?" he answered, causing her to look away.

A silence settled between them. He noticed she was dressed differently in a deep green colored dress that still fell just above her knee but was not a circus costume, and she was shoeless.

"You must be crazy," she said suddenly.

He snorted. He'd heard that before. "Yeah, and why's that?"

"You ran away from home and joined the circus. You're crazy." She said it like it was a confirmed fact, nothing to dispute. And maybe there wasn't.

"I didn't run away from home."

"You ran away from something."

"Well it isn't any of your business, now is it?" he said wearily, and stood, clutching the pole above them for leverage.

"I'm not trying to sympathize with you. Pity is wasteful." Her tone was cold and empty.

He looked down at her, at those bright blue eyes and crimson curls. Through the beauty, there was something rough about her. Something unbreakable. Something shattered, and built back up again with the certainty that it could never be conquered again.

"I don't want to know your story, because I don't care." She looked away from him again, back over the rope before her. "I was just stating a fact. Anyone who willingly chooses this place is insane."

"And are you insane?" He hoped he didn't regret asking.

Her face snapped towards him, and she glared up at him. As much as he wanted to look away, she forced him to hold her gaze.

Now she stood, crowding him on the tiny platform. That lethal stare held him like prey, unable to move or escape.

She inched closer, closing the distance between them. Instinctively, he backed away, gripping the pole above to keep from stumbling. The heel of his boot slipped from the platform, and his heart lurched to his throat.

He caught himself, holding onto the rod above for dear life. He muttered a curse, and glanced down at the distance he could've fallen. Probably to his death.

When he looked back toward her, her eyes were narrowed and her sharp jaw was set. She looked like a different person; like she'd almost _meant _to kill him, and not just scare the hell out of him. Like a venomous animal ready to strike. And just like that, she glanced away, tossing her red curls over one shoulder and retreated down the ladder.

He watched her, still gripping the bar with sweating palms.

She dashed out of the tent, leaving the thick flap fluttering in the breeze.

-O-O-O-

"_You've got to do it."_

"_Dad…"_

"_For me, Clinton. It will be easier this way."_

"_I can't do this. He's only just turned thirteen."_

_The words had barely left his mouth before his father had him pinned against the wooden clapboards. "You will do it. You will do it, or I'll do it. And it won't be as quiet, I can promise you that, boy."_

_His elbow dug into Clint's clavicle sharply before he pulled away, dust stirred up beneath his boots as he retreated._

_The scene changed and now he was pressing his palm against Bernard's bedroom door, dirtied knife in hand, breath caught in his chest. He'd just finished. He let out a strangled cry, clutching a bloodied hand to his chest._

_His weapon clattered to the floor, muffling his mother's voice at the top of the stairs. "Clint?"_

_He glanced up to her. She was shaken, her eyes wide and mouth agape. Her white nightgown caught the moonlight as it fluttered at her ankles. "Clint, what have you done?"_

"_Mama…I'm so…" he breathed, struggling for the air to speak. He doubled over himself, his stomach swimming. His palms smeared crimson against the knees of his trousers. He couldn't let her see._

_She toed down the stairs, but Clint couldn't let it happen. He couldn't let her see what he'd done. He had to save her, to save himself. This was better for both of them. Better than seeing her youngest son dead in his bed, murdered by the hand of his own brother. _

_He reached behind him, near the door for the revolver on the table nearby. Before he'd registered his own fingers around the trigger, the three remaining bullets were fired and the white nightgown grew slowly crimson and visibly wet._

-O-O-O-

He choked on the air upon waking, as if breathing were a foreign concept. He rolled to one side, gripping a handful of hay to gain bearing on something.

"You are quite the restless sleeper," Jacques's voice broke the rhythm of his heaving breaths.

"Yeah…" he breathed, running a hand over his face.

"You were screaming."

Clint sat up, pulling his knees up and bracing himself back on his palms. No chance of sleep anymore tonight. "Sorry."

A pregnant pause sat between them until Jacques spoke again. "You will do well in your training."

Clint scoffed. What made this guy think he needed or wanted any kind of training? He dug the pad of his thumb into one eyelid, pressing the weariness away. "You know…I didn't jump onto this train to become some circus freak. I just wanted out of the rain."

Jacques spoke again, but not in reply to his comment. "I know who you are."

He gave a dry chuckle. "No you don't." He shook his head.

"Наши призраки иногда становятся наши сильные стороны.," Jacques said.

"I don't speak Russian."

"In time, you will understand," the man answered and took a swig from his bottle. "Here." He held it out in Clint's direction. "It will keep you warm."

He gripped the neck and pressed the rim to his lips, taking a long swig of the bitter liquid, and felt instantly comforted from the chill whistling through the slats in the car.

"You lied to me about your name. So what is it really?" the older man asked, taking hold of his bottle once more and easing back into his usual corner.

"Clint. Clint Barton."

"Ah. A strong name. You have a good eye, boy. Few people have been able to show such skill on their first throw. Of course, it was only one. But you will continue to learn. I know greatness when I see it."

"And what exactly are you _training _me for?" Clint questioned, glaring into the weary green eyes of his mentor.

Jacques merely grinned and pointed a knowing finger in his direction before taking another swig. "You must decide for yourself. I can only provide the skills. What you do with them is yours. I can help you become the most famous marksman, swordsman, circus side show…" Jacques waved the titles away passively. "Or…the most deadly assassin the world has seen. You choose." He shrugged and pressed the bottle to his lips once more.

-O-O-O-

Early the next morning, only a few sleepless hours later, Clint was tugged to the edge of the clearing once more, this time without Natasha. A red and white ringed target replaced the felt-covered board he'd thrown into earlier.

"We try something new today, yes?" Jacques said, bending into the crate which held the swordsman's knives and other weaponry used in the show.

He retrieved a bow of sleek and unmarred wood. A strip of leather was wound at the center of the arc as a grip, but the bow was otherwise unused and clear of any distinguishing marks. "This has been without an owner too long. Try it," he insisted, and waved a hand towards the target.

Clint glanced up into the man's aged eyes before reaching out, gripping the bow around the center. His fingers drummed against the new wood, finding a comfortable position. The bow was surprisingly lightweight, sitting comfortably in his grasp. As if it belonged there.

Without further indecision, he raised the weapon and threaded an arrow across against it, listening closely at the two woods scraping against one another. His body fell into a stance as if it already knew the movements. His fingers curled around the string, arrow between two fingers.

"Yes. Ease back on that foot. Good," Jacques encouraged quietly behind him.

Closing one eye to focus, he found the center of the target with the arrow's head, lining up perfectly.

"Take your aim. Excellent."

He drew back the bowstring, muscles tightening with the new tension. His lips pressed thin and he drew in a long breath before releasing the string with a gentle thwang. The arrow spun and drilled into the target, sinking deep into the target, exactly center.

Jacques gasped from behind and then let out a loud laugh. "Fantastic. Astounding!"

The bow fell to Clint's side and he turned to face the swordsman. Yes, this was indeed destiny. He gave a satisfied grin and threaded another arrow. This one pierced right through the center of the previous arrow, wood splitting and cracking into two thin shreds.

The sound of slow applause made him turn.

Natasha stood, hands clapped together before they fell to her side. She just gave her tiny grin. "Jacques, I believe you've found your archer," she said over her shoulder, those chilling blue eyes locked into Clint's grey ones.

-O-O-O-

He'd found a new pastime during evenings. The past few nights he'd been able to sneak out of the train and off to the edge of the clearing, past the tents and games, past sleeping lions to his targets. There were three now, lined up at an even distance, but faced in such a way that he could adjust the distance as needed. He liked to test himself. Not only was it more difficult to see at night, but he tested different distances, stretching them longer and longer.

He released one arrow, reveling in the power and adrenaline coursing through him as the string thrummed near his ear.

The arrow sank at the center of the target. Perfection. But he was never satisfied. He'd try farther next time.

Hooking the bow over one shoulder, he approached the target to retrieve his weapon, but a soft voice made him pause.

"You're deaf."

His whipped around, searching for her in the darkness.

"We've really gotta stop meeting like this," he said, finding her silhouette near the fortune teller's tent.

She stepped into the full moonlight, hair swept off her face, wearing a thin frock of Chinese silk.

"I noticed how you shoot on the right, even though you're left handed. It makes it easier on you, doesn't it? You can't hear on your left."

"So now you know my weakness. Gonna try to kill me again?" he said, staring her down, not daunted by the fact that the moonlight made her pale skin glow.

She smirked and ducked her head, pouting her lips demurely.

He wouldn't be swayed. No matter what kind of affect the gentle breeze was having on the skin beneath her thin gown.

He turned back to his target, and paced backwards a few meters past her.

"I'd move if I were you," he suggested, drawing his bow to his ear, resting his thumb at his cheek when he pulled the string taut.

"I'm fine," she said sweetly, not moving, but standing just left of the target.

He released. Before he could shout in warning, she'd launched herself into the air, arching into a graceful front hand spring. The arrow jetted between her legs before they came together at the top of her hand stand, and continued down its path to the bull's-eye.

"Hey! What the hell were you thinking?!" he shouted, his voice echoing across the empty field.

She flourished her hands upward, as if she expected him to clap.

"You could've been hurt! Do you have a death wish or something?" He marched past her to retrieve the arrow, tugging it from the target with a crack.

"Maybe I do," she whispered, but he hadn't heard her, and when he turned back to face her she was gone.

-O-O-O-

Within the week, the tents were packed away and the animals caged once more. They were moving on.

Clint had been put to work striking the rigging in the Big Top, unafraid of the height and danger that came with releasing the trapezes and tight rope. He supposed he'd worked hard enough to gain favor with Jacques, and was rewarded with a warm pot of mystery-meat stew and his own thick quilt and even a pad of downy—yet flat—stuffing to serve as a mattress in their makeshift bunk of the rail car. Circus life wasn't too shabby, not that he'd ever had anything too exquisite to compare it to.

The performers, he'd learned, actually had nice cars nearer to the front of the train, with actual bedrooms and water closets. He imagined Natasha, curled up comfortably in feather quilts and not having to suffer the draft of this musty place.

Now, he sat, bow in his lap, on the dingy mattress that he'd pushed to the edge of the car near Jacques. It was the only corner of the car that didn't become dreadfully cold at night.

His knife etched gently at the wood of the bow, and he blew away any excess.

Into the lightly-stained wood, he'd carved the depiction of a hawk. Crude and a bit abstract, but a hawk nonetheless, thin strokes made by the knife converging into the lines of the wings, one small V for the beak, as if open in a cry of battle.

"Interesting," Jacques said over his shoulder. Clint turned to peer back at him in the dim lantern light. The car was silent except for the pulsing of the engine and chugging of the wheels beneath them. They'd moved on from Iowa, marking the first time Clint had ever been out of his home state. They were headed northbound to Wisconsin now.

He didn't respond but turned back to his work.

"Interesting that you should choose an animal of prey…"

"How come?" he asked, scratching at the wood to give the hawk a tail of three short lines.

Jacques just chuckled raspily and pressed his bottle to his lips, settling deeper into his quilt.

-O-O-O-

Translations:

"Наши призраки иногда становятся наши сильные стороны." – "Our ghosts sometimes become our strengths."

-O-O-O-

AN: Don't be afraid to review, dearies!


	3. Timshel

AN: Alright. So this week I bought the first issue of the new Hawkeye series…thing…IDK, I'm new to comics, and all these numbers are making my head hurt. Anyone care to explain? I wanna read the Iron Man comics and maybe the Daredevil comics, but I have no clue where to start. Can anyone help?

I LOVED Hawkeye! It is great, but I'm hoping there will be more action….? I mean, it was cool and funny and great, but there was no bow and arrow :(

But guess what I found out? He's from Iowa. Yep. That's right. I picked some random state in that last chapter. I just wanted a rural state where he could grow up with simple means, but DANG I'm good.

OK, read on :)

-O-O-O-

He was surprised they hadn't noticed by now, the way potatoes and tomatoes were disappearing from the chow tent. He'd gotten bored with shooting targets—he never missed. He needed…sustenance. The day a bushel of strawberries was brought in, he took the opportunity to snatch all his trouser pockets could hold.

Not all at once, of course. He nicked a few when passing with a fresh plate of bacon and eggs one morning. Then a few more when he dumped his flatware in the bucket with the other dirty utensils.

They made a challenging target, suspended from branches. Especially at a distance. A small drop of red against green. Almost like Christmas.

Even more thrilling was the way they exploded upon his arrow's impact. A violent spray of ruby colored juices and bits of red meat. He wondered if it was a bad thing to like the burst so much, to imagine it was blood. But he concluded that it was merely salutary. With every pluck of his bowstring, he felt a little more whole.

Natasha would stand near, of course in stealth behind tent flaps or in the shadows of trees. But he always knew she was there. He was accustomed to her presence by now, but didn't yet find himself longing for it.

One afternoon, he had his strawberries skewered on a piece of wire. His bowstring pulled back, but before he could fire, she'd stepped into his eye line to pluck a strawberry from the line, sinking pearly white teeth into the succulent fruit. He watched her a moment, mesmerized when her pink little tongue darted out between ruby red lips. She gave that tricky little smirk again, and his awe faded to aggravation.

"Keep walking in front of my shot, and you're going to get hurt one day."

She sashayed past him, her short costume fluttering at her thighs. "Is that a threat or a promise?" she spoke close to his ear.

He found his pocket knife missing a few hours later when he wanted it to slice his apple at dinner. He could see her smirk, even tables away.

-O-O-O-

_Boots slammed through mud puddles, crunched against grass. He had to get away. _

_He'd gotten himself into this, but he had no idea it would turn out like this. He was just supposed to kill them, like he'd been asked, and he had done it. As much as that had pained him. Ripped the heart right out of him. It was done. But now he was the target and unable to hide._

_He paused momentarily behind a tree, catching his breath, trying not to be too loud in the silent woods._

_A twig snapped somewhere._

"_Where do you think you're going, boy?" his father's voice sounded, lengthened and slurred._

_He searched for something to use as a weapon, but nothing could stand against the shot gun he'd heard cocked through the rustle of branches and leaves._

_He was going to die. _

_Their family had always been the talk of the town. The drunken husband; the silent mouse of a wife who always had a habit of touching her hands to her cheeks and lips, as if that would hide the bruises there. The two sons who desperately wanted out but wouldn't dare leave—not that there would be anyone willing to take them in anyways. They had a stigma about them. They were Bartons. Always a family of poor farmers and drunks who cheated at poker on Friday nights and were ready to pluck up a fight at the slightest insult. _

_He liked to think they were doing well. When his mother would tote them to church on Sundays, they looked everything like the perfect family. Just like all the others. Mama had even been invited to the ladies' luncheon once. Things were coming up roses until his father had flown off the handle. Now there would be no more Bartons. _

_Their house would be a landmark now. He could practically hear the townspeople and how they would talk. They would tell their children: 'Don't go up past the corn fields too far. That's the Bartons' house up there. Where that man murdered them all in their beds.' _

_There would be crazy rumors. The story would be twisted over decades, but it didn't matter really. At least they'd have some sort of legacy to their names._

_He was unprepared for the blow to head that sent him to his knees. _

_He felt the hard butt of the shot gun jam against his temple again and again. Then, once the older man's aim grew weary, it stuck him in the ear and Clint felt a spurt of blood, warm and liquid against his neck. _

_One arm came up in weak protest, unable to gain bearing over the power behind the shot gun._

_So he swung with the other hand, catching his father's ribs, stalling him long enough for Clint to stand and make a grab for the shot gun. It was wrenched from his grasp and bashed against his head again, but he was undeterred. _

_His fists flew blindly, only having moonlight and shadow to guide his aim._

_His knee jammed against the man's stomach, doubling him over so he was able to hook an arm around his neck. Before he could get a good grip, he was on the ground again. His father's fist crunched against his nose. Wasn't the first time._

_He took it. Sat back and let him nail into him over and over. Like always. He couldn't reach the shot gun, and his father had him pinned. There was no escape now._

_Eventually, the man gave up, weary, his breath heavy. He heard his body collapse against the thick foliage on the ground. There was silence for several moments. Maybe nearly an hour, Clint didn't know. But he stood, bracing himself against a twisted tree root. Everything hurt. He could feel the hot liquid pouring from his nostrils, his mouth, dripping down his neck. It was almost a comfort, so he didn't wipe it away. _

_The moonlight through the trees highlighted the outline of the shot gun, abandoned nearby. Without hesitation, he scooped it up and aimed at the man curled up against the ground._

_For the first time in his life, he squeezed his eyes shut when he fired. He couldn't take any more killing tonight, not even if it was necessary. If he hadn't seen himself do it, he could always deny it had ever happened. There were no other witnesses to say otherwise._

_His shot might've been blind, but the blast of gun made his bloodied ear ring painfully. His hand clamped over it, feeling new blood against the old that was already caked there. But this was his own._

_He collapsed once more against the ground, pressing his back against a tree truck. Maybe if he tried hard enough, he could root himself here and stay. _

_The ringing dulled into a low hum, and finally his head drooped onto one shoulder. When the sun peeked through the trees the next morning, he squinted in irritation before the previous events flooded back to him. _

_The only worrying part about it all was that when he shifted left, he couldn't hear the bark of the dogs and shouts of the sheriff as they approached._

-O-O-O-

Clint was not and never would be a showman. He had a skill set, and it was really all luck that he found something he excelled at. He'd always been a good hunter, quick with a gun and a knife. He never expected to be good with a bow, and certainly didn't expect to enjoy it. It was past its time, but it set him apart. Not that he knew exactly where it would lead him yet. Maybe it was just a hobby for now. But the way his muscles felt when tightened, the way the bow felt beneath his fingers, the tug of the string and the arch of the wood….it was all natural and filled him with purpose. The callouses were quick to appear, leaving the bends in his fingers dry and cracked. The bow was making its mark on him as much as he was on it. They were one.

He could fire four arrows in twenty seconds now, down his row of targets without missing his mark.

Jacques enjoyed lurking behind, watching and coaching here and there, not that he paid much attention. Clint wasn't one for coaching. He would figure things out for himself without interference from another. If there was something to improve upon, he was quick to pinpoint the problem and solve it.

After Jacques witnessed Natasha's aerial cartwheel, again in Clint's line of fire, he'd insisted on creating an act of the two of them. He thought the idea of their pairing was 'thrilling' and 'fresh.'

It was all Natasha's fault for insisting to show off, and Clint got the sinking feeling she was setting him up for something.

Jacques had hurried off to find the ring master, leaving the two of them alone at the fringes of the field.

Clint bounced the string of his bow against his hip, staring her down, trying to ignore how thin her waistline was in that jet black costume.

"Congratulations, Barton. Working your way up the ladder. Soon you'll have your own car and everything. Maybe they'll dispose of the magician to make room for you."

"I'd like my knife back," he insisted, ignoring her comment.

"Don't know what you mean," she answered curtly, bouncing on the balls of her feet.

"You nicked my knife the other day. I'd like it back."

She smirked and gave a 'hmmm.' "I guess I'm not the only one _nicking_ things these days."

"Touché. Now hand it over." He held his hand out expectantly,

She stepped closer, and he felt the ruffle of her skirt brush against his wrist. Her hand moved up, nails brushing the edge of his jaw.

"It's right here, Barton," she said.

With a flourish, her hand moved away from his ear, the folded knife clasped between two fingers.

He took it, encasing it in his own palm. "Aren't those types of tricks a little below your skill level?" he said, almost a whisper.

Her eyes glittered in amusement, those plump lips staying in a stoic pout.

She held his gaze again, almost forcing him there, into those clear blue orbs. She hid herself well inside them, but if he looked hard enough, he could see her trying to keep herself intact.

Two voices shouting back and forth in Russian broke their silence, and he flicked his gaze to the round-bellied ring master waddling over with Jacques who looked excited and breathless. "Natasha, and you, boy. You simply must show him what you've practiced. Away you go," he insisted.

Clint hesitated a moment. The ring master's usual jolly expression was replaced with impatience and agitation. Just another trick of the lights, Clint supposed, and drew his bow.

Natasha was already posed near the target. She executed the midair cartwheel again, hands coming up in a flourish at the end. Jacques clapped from behind, but the ring master looked nonplussed.

At his reaction, Jacques hurried to attempt an explanation. "Think of it on the trapeze. She will do her tricks, and he will fire. It is fantastic, eh? A thrill for the audience. The risk of death…perhaps he could even be trained on the tight rope."

Clint glanced in Natasha's direction, but she remained expressionless.

The ring master sniffed. "Hmph. Yes. It really is a sight. But…it needs something. A story. The archer…he will try to win her heart. She is always evading him. Is great, no?" He glanced at Jacques who looked even more eager.

"She is deadly. Poison to him, but he cannot stay away…She is like a spider…." The plump man's mustache twitched and his thick eyebrows knit together in thought. "I think…yes. You should begin practice now. I would like in the show once we reach California."

The man waddled away, coat tails swishing behind him.

"Well, there you are!" Jacques held his hands up in victory. "We have an act!"

Clint didn't like the way he put it_. We?_ He was the one firing deadly weapons at a woman who made everything look effortless and wistful. There was no three. Only two. Him and her. Partners.

He slung his bow over one shoulder and peered at her. She gave a tiny smile, a flutter of her lashes, and trotted away, her skirt swishing in the breeze.

-O-O-O-

A quiet whistle made him glance up from the bow in his hands.

Through the slats in the car he saw a flash of red hair. It was another sleepless night—not that anyone _could _sleep with a bunkmate like Jacques and his obnoxious snoring. He decided to appease her and stood from his pallet on the thick hay.

He swung from the cart, bow in hand, quiver over one shoulder.

"What do you want?" he asked softly, surveying her. She wore a mint green frock that scooped low, revealing the tiniest bit of cleavage and the blades of her shoulders, though partially covered by her crimson curls.

"Training," she said, and turned over one shoulder.

He fell easily into step beside her. "But it's in the middle of the night."

"We don't have much time. Training on the tight rope is tedious."

"I'm not scared of heights," he told her, though he didn't really know why.

"I know," she answered. She led him to a spot near the Big Top where a rope had been suspended between two tent poles, maybe ten feet long, only about two feet off the ground.

"I don't get to try something easier first? A plank maybe?" he asked. She threw him a sideways glance.

"It's easier with your shoes off first, so your feet can get accustomed to gripping the rope," she told him, but didn't remove her own leather boots.

He dropped to one knee to unknot his laces. Briefly, he glanced up, eyes roaming along her thin calves as she mounted the rope. It slackened a bit with the new tension, but she kept herself balanced.

"The goal is to keep the mass of your body over your feet. If you don't the rope will wobble and down you go," she told him once he'd abandoned his boots and socks. She held her hands out to him to help him mount the rope. His palms slid into hers and he was amazed for a moment at their softness and the contrast of their skin tones: hers pale and even, his tanned and spidered with veins from years of labor.

She helped to pull him onto the rope, and he stood sideways, the rope pressing into the aches of his feet. He wobbled, but she didn't.

"No, turn towards me. I've got you," she said, her voice the softest he'd ever heard it, almost friendly.

He did so, gripping the wire between two toes. It wasn't as hard as he thought it would be, but then again he had Natasha nearby. In the show, he'd be on his own.

She began walking backwards, leading him along a few steps. "Good," she encouraged.

He took his eyes off the rope a moment to peer at her. Her features were softened, eyes concentrated on his feet. The wind blew at her curls, whisping them around her face and neck.

He felt himself wobble and glanced back down, gripping the wire tighter on instinct to keep from falling.

"Relax," she coaxed softly, leading him forwards a few more steps.

His first walk was successful, earning him a genuine smile from Natasha before they mounted the rope again.

This time, he kept his eyes trained on her. She kept her lips in that solid, defensive pout and he noticed for the first time that she'd painted them with ruby red lip stick. Her dark lashes fluttered against her cheeks until they flickered upwards, allowing her to meet his eyes.

They paused a moment, balanced there in space. His eyes moved down her neck, where the breeze had blown her curls back over her shoulder, revealing a circular scar there, white and ghost-like in the moonlight.

"What is that?" he asked, eyes trained on the mark as if trying to memorize it.

There was a pause, a beat of silence. He felt her eyes trained at his face, but he couldn't look up from the little curved mark at the base of her neck.

Without reluctance, she released his hands with a shove.

He stumbled, catching one foot on the rope. He tried to regain balance but landed hard on his back against the dying grass.

He groaned, trying to catch the breath that had been knocked out of him. Her footsteps were silent against the grass as she retreated, leaving him gasping for air.

-O-O-O-

The next night, she came to him again and stood wordlessly by the car until he exited, leaving his bow behind this time.

When they reached the Big Top, their practice rope was gone, but she led him inside the great red and white tent. Stark darkness settled around them, and he barely caught sight of her mounting the ladder of the tight rope. He followed, though warily.

"I don't know if I'm ready for this yet," he told her, gripping the rungs beneath her.

"You're not. We aren't walking tonight."

"Oh?" he said, but she didn't reply.

She perched on the platform, knees to her chest, and he followed suit, letting his legs dangle. They were both silent a long while. He waited, wondering why she'd dragged him up here. He wanted her to speak first, lest he deter her from her purpose.

She sucked in a breath. "We're partners now," she observed.

"Yes," he agreed, encouraging her to continue.

"And as…partners…we need to be able to trust one another."

"Agreed."

Her hands twisted in her lap and her jaw squared. "Before you ask, any memory I had of my past was robbed from me. I don't remember anything before I was ten."

"Natasha, you don't have to…" he began, but her piercing gaze stopped him. She wanted no interruptions. But she didn't continue. Her head turned to her hands and her fingers interlocked. She was silent, as if waiting for him now. He wondered if he was supposed to contribute, or ask her to continue on her own.

"What happened when you were ten?" he whispered.

She didn't answer, but twisted her hands again. A heavy breath shook from between her lips, though she remained resigned. The tent felt suddenly small, and the air thickened.

She wasn't going to tell him, he already knew. Not yet, and maybe not ever. But she'd already done enough. She'd opened herself, more than anyone had ever seen.

She was trying to tell him he wasn't the only one scarred and stranded. He didn't have to hear her story to understand what she meant.

Destiny might've brought him to the bow, but it was fate that brought him to her. Fate that made a pair of two people who'd both had their share of suffering.

His fingers came to grip around her wrist, stilling her hands. She didn't protest.

If it was to find consolation for himself or for her, he decided it didn't matter as much. They both needed anchorage.

She didn't take his hand and didn't pull away like he'd expected. She let him touch her, and the pair sat side by side in their spot until the light outside grew slowly brighter with the new morning.

-O-O-O-

AN: I hope Natasha wasn't too soft for you. I believe she still has that capacity for emotion, especially with Clint. What we saw of her in the Avengers makes me think she has her moments of humanity, when she can draw herself out of her resigned nature and have heart. Anyways…that's just me. Hope you enjoyed. Please review! If you favorite or follow, I'd like to know why :)


	4. The Red Violin

AN: ATTENTION! This story is moving to the movie category of the Avengers. I think it will get more attention there. I didn't even know there was a movie category. I just assumed the only Avengers category was under comics, and I wondered why it was so small. To continue reading from now on, please find it there. Thanks guys. I hope I won't lose any readers because of this change.

Nervous here. I hope neither of them seem too flat. Sometimes emotions are so deep that words can't really capture them. Anyways. Happy trails. Peace.

-O-O-O-

Day in and day out they practiced. Eventually, he worked up to a ten-foot-high rope and then Natasha deemed him ready for 'the Big One.' He wasn't particularly nervous per se, but walking on a thin wire fifty feet in the air was a bit daunting.

She insisted he go it alone. He needed to get used to doing it by himself.

Without hesitation, he took his first few steps, ignoring the queasy feeling in his stomach at first. Natasha encouraged him along at the opposite end of the rope, and when he reached it she smiled briefly before turning to perch on the platform.

He hadn't expected any praise or kind words, even if it had been his first time on the high wire. He was learning that Natasha was often silent, but when she did speak, she never said things she didn't mean. Everything was thoroughly thought and meticulously planned. She could risk letting unwanted words slip.

He took the liberty to sit next to her.

Silence extended between them, palpable in the air. He fidgeted at the sleeve of his shirt, watching her palm rub heavily against one of her thighs.

"Those memories were tortured out of me…" she whispered suddenly.

This time he didn't try to stop her. He wanted her to continue, to tell him as much as she wanted to reveal.

But she didn't go on. She tensed, drawing her shoulders to her ears and he knew that was all he was getting out of her for now.

His fingers slid across the life line of her palm, facing upwards in her lap. When they closed around her hand, she didn't respond and he felt a sudden quease of embarrassment and fear that he'd done something wrong. Slowly, like a timid animal, her fingers bent to press around his. He heard her soundless breath, inaudible if it weren't for the silence.

Only seconds later, she decided to jerk away and jump from her spot. She dashed out of the tent before he could even follow, her red skirt fluttering around the edge of the tent flap.

His feet nearly slipped on the rungs in his rush to catch her.

"Natasha!" he shouted as loud as he dared, searching the wide field, illuminated by the strings of lights that been strung between tent poles and trees.

He saw a flash of red hair near the fortune teller's tent and the flutter of the flap as she entered.

He flung the heavy tarp material aside, easily locating her silhouette in the corner. "Hey…I didn't mean to scare you," he spoke softly, holding his hand out before him, for protection or invitation he didn't know.

He heard a scoff. "You think I'm _scared_?" he heard her voice threaten.

"Nat…" His hand searched for hers, brushing her hip before he found it.

Her watery blue eyes were visible, even in the muted light filtering through the grain in the tent. "Natasha…" he said again.

His hand slipped around her chin to hold her gaze. He watched her for several moments, finding nothing in those flat blue eyes. She could go stealth at a second's notice.

Something propelled him forward, and he leaned closer. His lips pressed against hers, softly and tenderly.

Her lips were pure silk, small and pert. He reveled in the feeling as his own rough ones slid across them.

He almost hoped she'd respond, the way she stood still and relaxed beneath him. Then she wrenched away almost violently and he felt the heel of her hand collide sharply with the bone beneath his eye.

He flinched away. "What the hell?" he asked, clamping a hand over the spot she'd hit him. The pain radiated through his temple a moment, lighting up sparks in his eyes.

His question hung abandoned in the air when she tugged him forward by his suspenders, their lips slamming together roughly. Her fingers tugged forcefully at his hair, bringing him closer. When her teeth sank into his lower lip, he groaned, instinct taking over and his hands pushed at her hips. Somewhere behind her, there was a jingle when her hip hit the table. He tried to keep her close, arms tightened around her waist and her arms encircled his neck. There was a heavy sigh, and she pulled back.

He listened to her breath a moment, rough and almost rasping.

"Alright…" he blurted stupidly, dazed.

Either she didn't know how to kiss, or she knew how to kiss _much _too well, Clint didn't know. But what had just happened left him reeling.

She grinned, and even in the darkness he could see her eyes glitter. Her ruby colored hair brushed at his elbow when she slipped past him.

-O-O-O-

If she hadn't driven him mad before, she certainly was doing so now. When they practiced, she remained staunch and silent, but in the evenings she lurked around his car until he noticed and came out to meet her.

They didn't function as normal lovers. There was no hand holding, joking, teasing. There was merely them. It was raw, and untainted by foolish fantasy. Kisses were not given in need, not peppered throughout their meetings against noses and cheeks. But rough and heavy, pressed against poles and hands gripping hair.

No one knew about their rendezvous. At least he hoped. There was nothing to tell, really. They weren't declaring anything. It was an outlet, a flue for unwanted emotion that was somehow freed when they were together. It wasn't love, but a match of tortured souls that needed some sort of muse.

She opened herself up a little more each day. He suspected she wasn't comfortable with physical contact. Any contact with the opposite sex she'd had was obviously non-existent or painful—he dared to assume the latter. But he respected her distance all the same.

But she looked a little more comfortable as the weeks wore by. Soon they headed for California, approaching their deadline to premiere their act.

He was issued a costume: black trousers with a purple stripe up the sides, and a black shirt. Simple and clean. He was glad of that. He wouldn't be paraded around like a circus clown.

The morning of their first performance, he found her in the tent where the women dressed and applied their makeup. She was alone, seated at the vanity, facing the cracked and smudged mirror, lining her lips with bright red lipstick. He smooth skin was already powdered and rouged, he thick eyelashes applied as well. She looked much less comical this time and more alluring.

She caught his eye in the mirror and the corner of her mouth turned up in a smirk before her gaze went to the pin spread out along the table.

"It suits you," she told him, acknowledging his costume.

"Thanks," he sighed and eased onto the chair behind her. "It doesn't feel like it suits me, so thanks for lying."

She hummed in laughter. "Could be worse."

She pushed a sparkling clip into her hair, pinning her curls up off her neck. She wore a pure black costume, black beads in an intricate pattern along the bodice, a ruffled skirt that fell mid-thigh in the front, and just past her knees in the back. Sheer black stockings hid her pure white skin, but he felt his eyes glued there, memorizing the curve in her calves. In short, she was stunning. She turned in her chair and rose.

He was caught for a moment in her piercing gaze, a prey in her web before she reached up, running red-polished nails through his sandy blonde hair. Her lips pressed to his sloppily, sucking the air from his lungs and leaving his head spinning.

When she pulled away, she was grinning slyly. She turned back to the mirror, combing a curl behind her ear. Clint was still focused on her thin white fingers when the tent flap was pushed open.

"Is my new favorite act ready?" Jacques asked, surveying Natasha's outfit before glancing to Clint.

He stared strangely for a moment before smirking, and tapping a finger against his lips.

Clint blanched. He wiped a hand across his mouth, smearing away the red lipstick she'd left behind.

Dammit.

-O-O-O-

He was at attention to begin, on his mark on the platform of the tight rope, bow in hand, quiver over one shoulder.

When they were announced as the 'Spider and the Hawk,' as they had come to be known, and his spotlight flicked on, he took his stance.

Natasha glided through the air, swinging from trapeze to trapeze while he fired arrows through her graceful arcs and leaps. Once fired, the arrows pierced targets that had been strung up behind her, never once missing a bull's-eye. The crowd was in awe, watching in stunned silence as he continued along the rope. Finally, at the end of their routine, she swooped down to join him on the rope, balanced with perfection.

She tugged him into an unrehearsed kiss as their lights faded, stunning him once again.

"Hey!" he breathed in surprise, the crowd's cheers faded into the background.

She didn't answer, but turned on the rope, retreating for the platform. He wondered how much trouble they would get in for that little stunt.

-O-O-O-

Apparently, despite the unexpected ending, their act had been extremely well received. Jacques seemed immensely excited, and the ring master as well. On their third night, Clint and Jacques were appointed a car towards the front, having been deemed valuable enough for such quarters. There really was nothing spectacular about the place. It was merely a room, as their other car had been, but with actual bunks, weary mattresses stuffed with straw and dingy feather pillows.

He wasn't complaining. He relaxed into the warmth of the bed, finally assuming a good night's sleep was in order.

But Jacques spoke. "You honestly don't think this is all there is, do you?"

Clint cracked an eye, glancing in his direction. "What?"

"Crowds of people for years to waste your talent on. It doesn't seem like a skill that should be merely kept to the circus, don't you agree?"

"Well…what else would I do with it? No one's looking for a man with skills in archery."

"You'd be surprised," Jacques said, swigging from his bottle.

"Yeah? And what job would I be able to get?"

"It isn't a job, or at least not a steady one. Think of it as a lifestyle. Your targets aren't limited to bull's-eyes, Clint my boy."

Clint shifted, suddenly uncomfortable. "You mean murder?"

"I said no such thing."

He felt a tremble of something inside. Just a step down from rage. "I would never _ever _assume a job that involves killing. There's been enough of that for me in the past."

"Not even if it meant the life of the one you love?"

He didn't like the way Jacques said it. Like he had something in mind. "I don't love her."

"Are you so sure?"

"I _don't_ love her," he answered again, certainty unwavering in his voice.

Jacques shifted, bending closer across the space between their bunks. "Then I suggest you be very, _very _careful." His eyes glinted, almost eerily. "Natasha has had her share of troubles. Believe me. I've seen what she can do to a man. She was fourteen when I found her in an alleyway in New York, and successfully laid three grown men to the ground. What happened in Russia made her a deadly weapon, and any slip up of yours will trigger that. Don't get too comfortable, Barton."

Clint twisted away, and lifted himself to extinguish the lantern on the paneled floor. Darkness settled in, but he felt a sting of unease in the pit of his stomach. No telling if he would wake up alive now.

-O-O-O-

AN: Short, but I wanted to end it here. Thanks for reading. Review?


	5. Girl With One Eye

AN: OK. So…I'm really quite happy with the events in this chapter, but hopefully you can see my motivation here—or rather the character's motivation. I hope you can see where they are coming from in this one, and what kind of pain Natasha is going through here. We get an insight to her life, and a little further explanation about Clint's. The flashbacks here are vague for a reason, and I will explain further later on. But anyways, here you are.

Adding song titles to chapters, as well. I'm putting them all here instead of going back to edit the documents. Here is the list so far:

1. All Kinds of Kinds – Miranda Lambert (really doesn't fit except the first verse, but hey…)  
2. Tha Mo Ghaol Air Àird A' Chuain – Julie Fowlis  
3. Timshel – Mumford & Sons  
4. The Red Violin – The Red Violin Soundtrack  
5. Girl With One Eye – Florence + The Machine

-O-O-O-

Trapped. He was trapped. Spun and wound in her web. Captive and captivated both at the same time. He watched her brushing out her long curls, pulling them from crisp ringlets to a soft wave of crimson. She caught his eye in the mirror before quickly flicking her gaze away again. She was an elusive little thing.

They'd spent the last five nights in her private car, hidden behind the heavy purple curtains that separated her downy mattress from the rest of the room. She had her own vanity, and a closet filled with every cut and color of dresses and costumes. She was the star act, and of course was given the best.

Her room was paneled in thick wood, etched with intricate markings of vines and flowers. The room's windows were draped in sheer curtains, muting the sunlight but diffusing the moonlight into a soft blue glow that cast fuzzy shadows over Natasha's porcelain skin. She stood from her spot and laid down her silver backed brush, turning to him.

She slid beside him beneath the sheets of her bunk, silk nightgown meeting his exposed flesh. His nose went to her hair, an addict to his vice, tugging her in close. His hand slipped up between them, beneath the thin fabric of her nightgown, ghosting over her taut stomach.

He hadn't asked yet, or attempted, to move anything forward. He wanted her to make the first move when she was ready. Many things had been taken from him, and been morphed into depravity, even by his own hand, but his mother had done well to teach him how to be a gentleman.

"Why are you here?" she asked softly. His gaze lifted to meet her eyes. They were deep this time, not flat and chilling. His hand shifted from beneath the silk and she instantly pressed to him at the loss of the warmth.

"I…uh…." He sighed, shifting. Her question threw him off a bit, so unexpected and blunt. "I killed my family," he said finally.

Her eyes didn't leave his, but her gaze was so odd and unsettling that he felt himself look away. It was almost as if she understood. "But that was years ago. Since then I've been on the road. Anywhere but Waverly."

She stared a moment, expressionless, spine rigid beneath his hand. Several emotions coursed through her as her lips twitched, but he was unable to detect them. Then she turned away, pressing her back to his chest in welcome for him to pull her close. He did, draping an arm over her small waist. He never realized how extremely tiny she was until the first time she curled up beside him. She stood so tall and staunch, but with her legs pressed to his, arms curled into her chest, she was like a child. He wondered exactly how old she was.

"This is all I've got," she said suddenly, her voice tiny, and he understood just how incredibly small her soul was as well. How much she forced it to the bottom of her spirit so it wouldn't show. He wondered how much effort that had to take.

-O-O-O-

_The girl's red hair spilled over her face in one single wave, limp with ice water and the salt of sweat. A strangled cry escaped her throat, though she'd stopped struggling hours ago. The bones in her hands ached when she flexed her fingers against the pipe she was cuffed to, radiating down her arms in one throbbing wave. She didn't dare move any more than that, or risk more pain anywhere else. She could already feel the bruises, thick and black along the skin around her neck and shoulders, forming from hours of torture here with her hands chained above her and her body weighted below._

_She tensed when a graveled voice spoke out to her in her native tongue._

"_What is your name, child?" he asked._

"_Natalia Romanova," she answered, unmoving, her voice eerily flat._

"_Yes. That's right. And where are you?"_

_She took a breath, but regretted it when her ribs ached. "You haven't told me yet," she almost spat, voice thick with sudden malice. _

_A hand gripped her hair and she gasped quietly, pain radiating through every strand. "You understand better than anyone how we punish the insubordinate, my little Natalia. It seems that you haven't gotten enough yet."_

_She didn't respond, remaining stiff beneath his hand. She didn't even cringe when icy water trickled down her spine then splashed over her head, drenching her again. She felt the breath leave her lungs but didn't inhale again until the water warmed against her skin._

"_Now, have you anything to say for yourself?" the voice asked._

_She sagged under the weight of her own arms growing heavy above her, flinched at the pulling in her muscles. "Not a word," she hissed._

_The gush of water came again, this time with more force, like a powerful hose had been opened, bits of ice trailing down her arms, forcing a shiver that made her muscles throb. This time she gasped audibly, shoulders tensing._

"_You failed on your mission, young Natasha. Do you understand the severity of that?"_

_She was silent._

"_You are very lucky we are so kind as to not murder children."_

"_No, but you hold them within an inch of their lives," she said slowly. She steeled herself for a kick or slap, but nothing came._

"_Your sharp tongue will get you in trouble one day."_

"_One day?" she scoffed. She heard the squeak of the man's boots against the cement flooring as he settled on his knees before her. His hand still gripped her hair, and twisted deeper into the tangled mess._

"_Where is your loyalty, girl?"_

_She knew the answer. It had been burned inside of her many years ago. Through seemingly innocent schooling, lessons in reading and history, the answer was always there. As she grew and moved onto more dangerous lessons: target practice, weaponry, the answer was always irrefutable. All other answers were faulty and dangerous. She knew where she belonged. _

_Her voice was clear and crisp when she spoke._

"_With you."_

-O-O-O-

Natasha snapped awake, shoving the weight of his body off of her, bracing her side against the nearby wall, letting the rumble of the train soothe her back to reality.

"Tasha…" a male voice spoke, and she swung with fury, a hand grabbing and twisting the arm that reached out for her until there was a stiff cry of pain. "Tasha, what is it?"

She froze, hand still locked around his wrist, prohibiting his movement and holding him at a distance. "Nothing," she answered.

"You'll feel better…" he pressed.

"Nothing!" she repeated and released his hand, wrapping her arms defensively at her knees.

He eased up next to her, sitting parallel. She didn't respond when his fingers brushed her bare calve tenderly.

She waited, several long moments, sitting stiff beneath his palm. Then she sprung, shoving him back down against the mattress, hands pinning him down. She stared viciously for a moment, threatening, tempting before she struck.

She felt him flinch when her fingers tightened around his wrists, and felt a surge of satisfaction.

"Natasha, stop it," he said softly, but she vaguely heard.

She bent close and pressed her lips to his, cutting off his breath and pressing him deeper into the mattress. He was stronger than her, still had the advantage in this fight, and could easily push her off, but he didn't. One hand slipped from his wrist to grip his throat, her thumb applying dangerous pressure to the gap between his collar bones.

She'd lost before she'd even begun, and she knew it. His hands found her forearms and twisted, pinning them behind her. "What do you think you're doing?" he growled, pushing her backwards and into an upright position.

"Careful, Barton," she chirped demurely, leaning in closer. She managed to untwist her arms, in turn twisting his outward. She pushed off from the mattress with her feet and flipped him backwards over her head. He landed hard on his back but was quick to stand and block her swing when she pounced up from her crouch to plant her fist at his face.

He blocked her with his forearm, grabbing her wrist with the other hand and jerked it above her head.

She paused a moment, glaring him down. "Didn't your mama tell you never to hit a lady?"

"I haven't hit you…yet," he said, still holding off her fist, frozen in midair.

Then she smirked. "Not too smart are you, Barton?"

Before he could blink, she'd landed a blow to his exposed ribs with her opposite hand, doubling him over and clamping her legs around his neck. Her hands planted and she flipped, tossing his back onto the mattress. The springs groaned loudly, several jabbing his spine painfully. He groaned, only briefly before turning over his shoulder to lift himself up and retaliate, but she was already on the move.

She tugged a thick dressing gown from the vanity chair and slipped into it. She whipped back the curtains on the nearby window and tossed it open with a snap. He barely had time to blink before she'd hoisted herself out and onto the roof of the moving train. He panicked a moment before he heard a soft thunk above him.

-O-O-O-

Two days later they stopped to unload for a week-long stint in Nevada. He hadn't seen her since the night of her episode. He didn't know what had thrown her into such a fit, but she was getting much too comfortable with trying to kill him.

He busied himself with the haul, unfurling tents and hammering their poles deep into the ground; anything to keep him busy and out of the performers' way, not that any of them had exited the train yet anyways. They always had a way of disappearing when the heavy work started, leaving it for the grimy roustabouts.

A sheen of sweat on his skin, but well energized from his work, he headed out to his targets for a bit of practice.

He'd started trying multiple arrows, and was up to three at a time, which he could fire with perfect accuracy in a completely vertical line on the target.

He heard the hum of approval behind him, but felt her presence even before she'd spoken. "Nice job. You're getting rather fancy."

He turned, his eyes stormy. "What are you doing here?"

She just chuckled between pouty lips and tossed a wave of blood-red curls over one shoulder. "What, are you angry because you lost to a girl?"

"You attacked me," he said. "Is this going to be a habit? You trying to kill me all the time? Because I think it's happened one too many times…"

"Maybe you should learn to fight back," she challenged, condescension thick in her voice. "I can teach you."

"I don't need you to teach me. I'm a fair fighter."

"Fair isn't good enough."

She spoke the words like an old adage, like something to live by. He wondered who'd spoken it to her first. A trainer from Russia, perhaps.

He caught her fist in midair before it made contact with his side. But she twisted before he could, making him gasp at the pain in his elbow. He tried to swing with his free hand, but she grabbed it and easily tossed herself into an aerial cartwheel, bringing his weight with her and landing him flat against the grass.

"You lose again," she said, straddling a foot over his legs.

He grabbed for her ankles, tugging forward, causing her to lose her footing and land hard in front of him on her tailbone. She should've had the breath knocked from her lungs, but she kicked forward, feet landing in his chest, shoving him back against the grass.

She stood and brushed the dead blades from her skirt before offering a hand out to him. "Your attempts are weak."

"Not weak," he gasped. "Subtle." He grasped her hand and jumped to his feet.

"No," she clipped, "This is subtle." She landed a knee to his side, bringing him to his knees. Her legs scissored around his neck, and she planted her hands to bring his weight over her and down against the ground again, but only gaining enough momentum to bring him to his knees. He easily grabbed a leg and tugged, tripping her. She fell face first into the dirt and he heard the angry crunch of teeth against teeth as her jaw clipped. A smudge of dirt dusted her chin when she sat up, but he didn't have time to smirk in victory before she landed an elbow to his throat, choking the breath from his throat.

A hand planted on his shoulder and she swung herself onto his back, taking a handful of blonde hair and pulling, wrenching his head back, one arm curling in front to prevent him from turning his neck, a knee digging into his spine.

"Ok, Ok. You win," he choked.

She leapt off of him, hands at her hips in satisfaction. "Would you like to retract that statement about not needing my training?" she asked sweetly.

He nodded, rubbing the spot when her fingers had dug into his scalp.

-O-O-O-

"_You don't have to do this," the man said, a hand out in front of him, silently asking her to lower the gun._

_She cocked, eyes locked on her target._

"_You're only a child," he said._

_But she was no child. She was an assassin. With forty targets under her belt in only three years. She raised her jaw, aiming and tightening her grip on her pistol._

"_I can help you," he insisted, lowering his hand. But she didn't lower her gun. She had already experienced the cold torture of failure, and wouldn't dare do so again._

_The American soldier before her sighed, lowering his head in absolution. She wasn't backing down. She had him in her sights, and once one entered the Widow's web, they didn't escape. _

"_Do you remember what family is like?" he asked suddenly._

_Natasha thought it odd. Why would a grown man, set under the gaze of her pistol, ask such a thing? She was a child, like he'd said. In her training, she had struggled with English. French was easy, Latin a breeze. But English was tough. She sorted through memories of lessons, painful drills when she would get the words wrong. But there was no mention of the word 'family.'_

_Family. She didn't remember. Was it a noun? Or a verb? She couldn't place it. It was so close, at the very tip of her memories, but she couldn't reach quite far enough._

_In her efforts to recall, she'd let the aim of her weapon waver, now dipped towards the concrete flooring. She swallowed thickly, finger loosening at the trigger._

_She met the soldier's eyes again, trying to refocus herself but failing as her brain refused to forget the word. Family. _

"_What is family?" she asked, her English thick with her native accent and shaking with the knot building up in her chest._

_She expected him to draw his own gun that she knew was concealed at his hip, but he didn't. He didn't curse her forgetting like the other men did when she slipped up in her lessons. He knelt down on a knee, holding that hand out again. Welcoming her. Asking her. His eyes softened, becoming kind. But kindness was something long ago forgotten. She didn't recognize the emotion, but accepted the hand, placing her small one inside his, letting her pistol clatter to the ground behind her._

"_I can help you," he repeated, his voice far-off and muffled as the dream dissolved._

-O-O-O-

She woke with a start, shoulders shivering and sweat thick at the back of her neck. She curled forward over her knees, letting out a gasping breath.

A set of familiar fingers traced the outline of her shoulder blades, rising to her shoulder and squeezing gently. "Tasha," he said, softly. She didn't turn to look at him, didn't push his hand away this time or spring on him in a fit of swirling emotions like she had before.

She let him touch her, trying to remember a time where men had been as kind as he was. The soldier's face flashed in her mind once more, vivid and ghost-like all at once.

When she turned to look back down at the archer, his eyes were the same soft gunmetal-blue her savior's had been.


End file.
